


take me back to golden horizons

by quiddative



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cemetery, Character Study, Discussions of Death and the Afterlife, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, POV Keith (Voltron), POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Season/Series 06, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 12:18:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiddative/pseuds/quiddative
Summary: “If your father had been Galran,” continues Krolia, tracing the man’s name on the stone as if the carved letters are lines on a map that can lead her home, “we would have built a pyre for him."(Or: Keith takes Krolia to his father's grave.)





	take me back to golden horizons

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Jane Austen for bastardizing her most famous piece of writing for the sake of (temporary) Keith angst.

  _Nathan Satoshi Kogane_  
_Father_  
_Son_  
_Friend  
__He will be missed._

The headstone is plain and, as far as Keith can tell from the hundreds surrounding them, pretty average in size. He doesn’t remember much about the funeral—doesn’t _want_ to remember, would rather burn the memories with Red’s fire and toss the ashes into a blackhole—but he knows that not a single person asked for his opinion before they erected this two-feet slab of rock that is all that’s left of his father.

 _He will be missed_ , it says, like it’s that simple. Like the man buried six feet beneath it just stepped out the door to get something from the shop. _Sorry, you just missed him but he’ll be back in a minute_.

There is a thud next to Keith and he remembers that he isn’t alone.

Krolia is on her knees with her forehead nearly touching the ground and hand gripping the stone so tightly that the knuckles are turning pale lavender. Her shoulders tremble and Keith thinks, uselessly, _Oh, I’ve never seen her cry before_. 

“I’m sorry,” his mother whispers. Her voice is shattered glass and the shards cut deeply into Keith’s chest. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.” She lifts her head. “You didn’t deserve this.” Keith jolts when her bright wet eyes land on him. “Neither of you.”

And Keith knows this. After four years in the system with the occasional subpar mental health check-up and two years in the Garrison with its aggressively regular psychological evaluations, he knows that he is not the one at fault. He used to blame the mother he never met and sometimes, when the cuts and bruises and other children’s jeers ached more than usual, he even hated his father. 

But the last two years in space (or is it four now?) has hammered home a truth that he personally thinks should be much more universally acknowledged than some eighteenth century female author’s writings about single men and money and marriage and all that crap:

Sometimes, shit happens and there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it.

“If your father had been Galran,” continues Krolia, tracing the man’s name on the stone as if the carved letters are lines on a map that can lead her home, “we would have built a pyre for him and sent his body into the nearest sun.

“And his mate would have written their name over his heart, so that the gods would know to reunite their souls when the time came for their mate to leave this plane as well.”

Keith stares at the stone (had it really always been this short?). 

 

_Father  
_ _Son  
_ _Friend_

 

There is no trace of Krolia on it anywhere.

In fact, all that she left behind on this tiny, insignificant planet were a knife and a child whose very existence should have been impossible.

(Somewhere, he thinks he hears Red and Black purr, “ _No, not impossible—a miracle._ ”)

“Come on, we should head back before it gets too dark,” says Krolia eventually, her voice as soft and gentle as a blanket. It’s what Keith thinks a normal mother sounds like.

But on Krolia, who is first and foremost a soldier, it sounds jarring.

Keith looks back at the grave as they leave the cemetery.

* * *

He sneaks back in that night and has only just taken his knife out when he hears, “What are you doing?”

His heart jumps to his throat at the sound of that voice. He’s not afraid—could _never_ be afraid—but thunder rolls through his veins all the same.

Shiro is giving him a vaguely disapproving frown but there is amusement in his eyes. Keith, as is always his immediate reaction whenever Shiro is near, wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t. Instead, he eloquently says, “Uh, nothing, just taking a stroll...through the graveyard...at night.”

The edges of Shiro’s lips curl into something that is on its way to smile. “I can see that.” He looks pointedly at Keith’s knife. “And is that it?”

If Shiro had been a complete stranger, Keith would have just told them to fuck off with absolutely no remorse. If it had been Lance or Romelle or one of the others, he would have just told them to mind their own business with mostly no remorse (okay, he might actually feel guilty if it were Hunk).

But this is Shiro and Keith is physically incapable of not giving him what he wants.

(Lance is fond of saying that Keith would pull the whole damn sky down for Shiro if he thought it would make the older man happy and—well, past experience shows that he’s not _wrong_.)

Keith tells him and Shiro gives him this look—one that Keith has never seen him direct at anyone else. He looks at Keith with so much fondness and pride that it makes Keith feel like he’s worth more than his weight in gold.

“Can I help?” Shiro asks, folding himself to sit cross-legged next to him.

Even now, at nearly two in the morning, his body radiates heat like a hearthfire and all Keith wants to do is wrap his arms around him and never let go.

(He’s thought about it and he realizes, if it comes down to it, that he wouldn’t mind being burned. Hell, he already has the scar to prove it—what’s one or a couple more in the grand scheme of things?)

“There’s not much you can do, I’m afraid,” Keith says apologetically and deliberately does not look at Shiro’s right stump. It’s the truth; even if Shiro still had his right arm, this is really a one-person kind of job.

And, Keith thinks, it would just feel _wrong_ if anyone other than him was doing this.

Shiro accepts this with a nod, almost like he can hear what Keith is thinking, and simply leans back to watch him work.

When Keith finally finishes, he sheathes his knife, gets to his feet, and offers his hand to Shiro. The other man takes it and electricity hums just below Keith’s skin at the contact.

He doesn’t know if Shiro can feel it, too, but neither of them let go even when they start walking.

“Do you believe in the afterlife?” Keith asks suddenly. He quickly snaps his mouth shut, cheeks growing warm with embarrassment.

Shiro raises an eyebrow at him but there’s no judgement in his eyes. “Seeing as how I spent the better part of the last year in one...I feel like I kind of have to.”

One day, Keith will appreciate Shiro’s darker jokes as part of his gradual healing process but tonight isn’t it. “The Black Lion’s consciousness doesn’t count.”

Shiro hums. “Well, I do. Comes with the territory of being raised Buddhist, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Because Kro—my mom told me there’s this tradition that the Galra have when your mate dies. You write your name on their body before cremation so that the gods can reunite you when you’re both dead.” Keith shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno, I just thought it was interesting.”

Shiro suddenly lets go of his hand to cup his cheek. Keith stops breathing. “I’d like to see any god try to keep me away from you,” he says.

Beneath the playfulness on the surface of his voice, there is something powerful in his words. They bind themselves to Keith’s soul and add yet another notch over his heart where it proudly claims to all eyes within a hundred mile radius, _Takashi Shirogane was here_.

“I’ll fight them all,” Keith says, just as playfully but no less sincere.

It’s one of his few good traits, really: his propensity to tell the truth.

Shiro chuckles and Keith eagerly absorbs the sound, lets it curl in his chest like a cat that just found an afternoon sunbeam. “As many times as it takes, right?” There is only the slightest hint of uncertainty in his voice. 

Keith grips his hand, imagines taking that uncertainty and crushing it into the ground. “And then some,” he swears.

* * *

Three weeks later, Krolia will return to the cemetery with a bouquet of desert golds and see this:

 

_Father_  
_Son  
_ _Friend  
_ _Husband_

**Author's Note:**

> (The title was taken from the lyrics of _Wolves and the Water_ by Edward R.)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little coda! Please feel free to come yell at me about all things Voltron at my vld blog [@oricnde](http://oricnde.tumblr.com) and anything else at my main [@britomarttis](http://britomarttis.tumblr.com)!


End file.
